In the end, the disciplinary hearing was just a formality, and Joe didn't even show up for it. In fact, he'd all but disappeared: according to Darrell, over the weekend Joe had emptied out his room, packed everything, and left for parts unknown, without telling anyone where he was going. At that point, I didn't even care: whether he went back home to Texas, or decided to go backpacking for a couple years to find himself, or disappeared into a torture basement somewhere, it was all the same to me, as long as I didn't have to deal with him any more.

I still had to show up for the hearing myself, however. Bradford McKinley had a whole process set up, it was basically a small-scale trial: the person who was being accused of breaking the school’s rules or code of conduct had to attend, as well as any victims (me, in this case). Witnesses were called, and there were even lawyers of a sort, other students who could assist all involved parties during the hearing.

In this case, though, almost everything was moot, since Joe was gone. In fact, besides Dean Anderson (a bald man in his mid-sixties who seemed to have a stern look permanently affixed to his face), the only people who spoke at the hearing were me, Darrell, and Nora: I testified about what Joe had done; Darrell and Nora corroborated my version of the events, telling the dean what they’d witnessed when they’d answered my call for help; and in the end, with no one available to rebut what we’d said, the dean banged his gavel and expelled Joe from the college, also barring him from setting foot on campus for three years. When I heard his words I breathed a sigh of relief, as did all my friends from the GSA, who’d insisted on being there for moral support.

All in all, it was almost a non-event, except for one detail: I showed up for the hearing wearing a dress.

It had been a difficult, laboured decision. After the assault, I spent the whole weekend basically hiding in Vicky’s house, with her, Mel, Katie, and Nora providing moral support; Anna and Elanor visited a few times per day, bringing news from outside. And from what they’d said, the chances of me keeping up the charade didn’t look good. Several people had witnessed the attack, or part of it at least, which was understandable since it had happened in a dorm. Despite the dean trying to do damage control, within a day the whole campus was abuzz with the news: “One of the guys living in the dorm was actually a closeted trans girl, and when her transphobic room-mate found out he assaulted her.”

When they told me about that, they had me sit down first, and with good reason: once I’d learned that basically everyone at the college knew who I was – or who I was pretending to be – and that I wouldn’t be able to hide it any more, I felt the world drop away from me for a second.

But then I thought about it carefully.

This was a good chance, actually. Thus far, I’d been basically going about my day, being able to hide my pretend-transness from anyone who didn’t outright know: which, considering that the only people who did know were the folks at the GSA, meant that the vast majority of people at Bradford McKinley didn’t treat me any different than your average cis boy.

How would they treat me, now that I was actually out?

This was an excellent chance. This way, I could experience what being out, what being a trans girl was actually like, and use what I would learn to further my understanding of queer issue, and as material for the paper I was writing. Moreover, it would make an even bigger splash when, months down the line, I would reveal that psych! I was just pretending! You believed me, and I’ve fooled you all!

Plus, there was my mental health to consider. Over the previous couple months, I’d noticed that I was much more happy, much more relaxed, when I was with my queer friends and pretending to be a trans girl, than when I was out in the world, behaving as the cis man I was. The… tension, the underlying buzz which had been there since I’d been thirteen or fourteen, was just gone. I could enjoy myself, I could just be me and not have to be careful about what I said. I could just be me, and not have to pretend. (Well, besides pretending to be trans, but that came to me easier and easier those days – I guess it was just experience, having done it for so long it was starting to become natural.)

So why couldn’t I just start pretending to be a trans girl everywhere, all the time, with everyone? Thus far, there had been two layers to the deception: I was a cis man, who was pretending to be a trans girl, who was pretending to be a cis man with everyone she wasn’t out to. I could just remove the second layer, and keep just one – I would be a cis man pretending to be a trans girl, period. And this way, I could stop being careful about what I said to whom. It would be much easier. Much more relaxing.

Yes, this was clearly the best choice.

And thinking about it, showing up en femme at the disciplinary hearing wasn’t the most difficult thing I had ever had to do. It wasn’t even the most difficult thing I had to do that week: after all, the only people there would be the dean, my friends, Darrell, and a stenographer who would write everything into the official record. And the dean, to his credit, was completely professional – he didn’t even blink at how I was dressed, and he called me ‘miss O’connor’ on the few occasions he needed to address me by name.

No, the biggest challenge came a day later, when I had to show up for class again. That was the moment I’d been dreading: having to endure the looks of my classmates, some of which, I was sure, would be absolutely judging me for being trans: despite Bradford McKinley being a very liberal college, it certainly had its shares of bigots in the student body, as Joe had so handily proven.

So I decided that I had to go all out. To make everyone see me for what I was: a girl.

And go all out I did. I had Vicky do my make-up, and I put on my best dress, the one Nora had bought me, a few months earlier. Wearing the clothes she’d picked out for me, somehow, boosted my confidence. It was also literally the only dress I owned, and I realised I would have to go shopping soon, since I couldn’t just borrow from my friends: while they were willing to lend me their clothing, nothing they owned fit me right. The only one of them who wasn’t at least two inches taller than me, Vicky, was instead two sizes bigger – while she absolutely rocked each and every look she did, when I tried on her clothes I felt like I was swimming in them.

Still, I was extremely nervous when I showed up at the social studies classroom, side-by-side with Anna and Nora – even though we didn’t share any class, my girlfriend had insisted on walking me there, and I was extremely grateful to her for it.

“Alright,” I said. “This is it.”

I took a deep breath, and slowly let it out.

“Yeah, this is it,” Nora said. “Remember: you got this.” She beamed a smile at me, and leaned over to give me a peck on the cheek.

I nodded. “Well… See you later.”

“I’ll wait at our usual place,” she nodded back.

I exchanged a glance with Anna, who smiled at me reassuringly, took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and walked into the room.

I’d barely taken two steps inside when the hubbub of conversation, which usually filled the classroom before the start of the lesson, died out; everyone turned to look at me. Suddenly, I felt exposed: it was as if I was naked, feeling their stares on every single square inch of my skin. Looking at me, examining me.

Unconsciously, my breathing started getting faster. What was I even doing? Why did I think this was even remotely a good idea? I had to–

“What the hell are y’all looking at?” Anna said loudly: she wasn’t shouting, but somehow she made her voice carry to every corner of the room. “Have none of you ever seen a trans person before? Seriously.”

At her words almost everyone looked away in shame; whispered conversations started filling the classroom again, but at least I was no longer the object of everyone’s direct attention.

Anna patted me on the back. “See? Nothing to it,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said, smiling at her.

“You’re more than welcome,” she replied. “Shall we take our seats?”

I nodded, and started walking towards my usual spot.

“Where are you going?” Anna asked.

I turned back towards her. “Um… to my seat?” I said.

“No you’re not,” she shook her head. “You’re not sitting on your own any longer. Come here.”

She gently, but firmly, grabbed me by the arm, and walked with me to the front of the classroom, towards the group of girls she usually sat with.

“Hi, girls,” Anna said. “This is Lily.”

“Hi,” one of the girls said. “I’m Lauren.”

“Brie,” another one continued.

“Lydia.”

“Sequoia, but you can call me Essie,” the last one concluded.

“She hates her name, and wonders what her parents were even thinking,” Brie commented.

Essie smiled. “I guess that’s one thing we have in common. Nice to meet you, Lily.”

“Nice… nice to meet you, too,” I replied; I turned to Anna, and saw she had a wide smile on her face – she’d clearly planned it all out.

“Thank you,” I whispered to her, as the professor entered the classroom and called for us all to quiet down.

“You’re welcome,” Anna replied as she took her seat.

I had a huge smile on my lips until the end of the lesson.

-----

“And this concludes our lesson for today. Class dismissed,” the professor said; he glanced around the room, and his eyes landed on me. “Miss O’Connor, may I have a word, please?”

I nodded, and started to get up from my chair; Anna stopped me by putting a hand on my shoulder.

“Want me to come with you?” she asked.

I smiled, and shook my head. “No, thank you, I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’ll see you outside.”

She nodded, and left the room, as I walked up to the professor.

“How are you doing, Miss O’Connor?” he asked when I’d reached him. “I know about…” He paused, seemingly thinking about how to formulate the next few sentences, and then he spoke again: “I’ve heard about what happened on Friday. Are you alright?”

I looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “I’m not completely okay, I have a few things I need to work through. But I can do it.”

The professor nodded back. “Okay, glad to hear it. Next question, then. About the paper you’re writing, the one about how transition affects cis people.”

“What about it?”

“Do you still feel comfortable writing that?” he asked. “I don’t know what you were planning to write, exactly, but considering what happened, I think some parts might be… triggering.”

I didn’t say anything, so he took that as his cue to continue.

“Of course, if you want to switch subjects, make your dissertation about something else, I’m sure I can find something for you to write about. And I’ll be lenient in grading, since you’ll have just a couple months to write it. What do you think?”

I kept looking at him for a few moments more, then shook my head. “Thank you, sir, but it’s fine. I can keep going, no problem.”

The professor gave me a long, hard look, then nodded. “Alright. But if you need to switch, you just have to tell me. I’ll figure something out.”

“Okay,” I nodded back. “Thank you again.”

“Of course,” he said. “Have a good day, Miss O’Connor.”

I left the room, and was met just outside by Anna: we made a bit of small talk as we started making our way towards our usual hangout spot, but then she quieted up when she saw that I clearly had a lot on my mind. And she was right, I was thinking about the exchange I’d just had with the professor.

To be honest, I was on the verge of rethinking writing my paper. After all, who would benefit from it in the end? Certainly not trans or queer people: my dissertation was about how cis people could pretend to be trans to access the spaces reserved for the other gender, and also to get ahead in life.

But, point the first: as I’d very recently experienced, trans people are not better off than cis people, not by a long shot. In fact, Joe thought I was trans, and he’d assaulted me because of it, which wouldn’t have happened to a cis man. Not to mention the stress of having to actually transition, of getting on HRT, of having to be closeted for a significant amount of time, of buying an entirely new wardrobe, of doing voice training… The only thing I’d proven was that, all other things being equal, the life of a trans woman was significantly more difficult than the life of a cis man.

And, point the second: I had found exactly zero proof of cis people pretending to be trans and transitioning. The only person who was doing that, as far as I could tell, was me. If I wrote my dissertation the way I was originally planning to, I would put lots of trans people in a difficult situation: suddenly they’d have their lives examined closely for any ‘proof’ that they weren’t actually trans, but were just pretending. And no one would gain anything from it either: originally I thought the entire point of the exercise was to expose ‘fake’ trans people, but there was literally no one to be exposed.

Besides me.

Was it really worth it to risk ruining the lives of countless trans people, just because one idiot had gotten a dumb idea into her mind?

Probably not. And the professor had given me an out, which I didn’t have before: I could just say I didn’t feel comfortable writing my dissertation any more, because of what had happened with Joe, and that would be that. No more thinking about it. No more agonising over things.

But there was one thing which I knew I had to try, at least, before calling it quits on the whole thing.

I sighed deeply as Anna and I sat down at a table in our usual café, at which Nora, Vicky and Elanor were already seated.

“That sigh didn’t sound promising,” Nora said. “Did it really go that bad?”

“What? No, no it didn’t,” I replied, shaking my head. “It’s just… I have lots of things on my mind. There’s some stuff I’m thinking about.”

“Such as?”

I hesitated. “Well… I was thinking. Now that basically everyone here at college knows I’m trans…” I hesitated again, and looked around the table. “There’s no real reason for me not to change my legal name, right?” I paused for a moment, but then continued, “I mean, originally I was planning on waiting until the school year was over, before getting to it.” Which meant never getting to it, since I was planning on going back to being a man either just before or just after the start of summer vacation. “But now… Why not just do it? I mean, might as well.”

I looked around the table again, and I saw my friends were smiling at me.

“This is a very big step,” Nora said, reaching for my hand and giving it a squeeze. “And I’m proud of you for taking it.”

I felt a bit of warmth in the pit of my stomach at her words and at her smile, but at the same time I felt a bit guilty: here I was, deceiving my girlfriend yet again.

I dismissed the thought. I would have to face the music sooner or later, but that moment had yet to come. “Thank you,” I said. “The problem is… I don’t know how to go about it. I mean, how do you even change your name?”

“It’s complicated,” Vicky replied. “I haven’t changed mine yet, because I don’t want to risk my parents getting wind of it, but I’ve looked into it a lot, obviously. It mostly depends on where you were born, each state has its own rules.” She paused. “Which reminds me, I don’t even know where you’re originally from.”

“Oh, I’m a local,” I replied. “Or almost a local. I’m from this state, up near the border with Canada.”

“Alright then, I’ll help you look into it,” Vicky said. “I think I know who to ask, actually: a girl I know is a local, too. So yeah, I can send her a text and ask her.”

“That would be great,” I smiled. “Thank you, Vicks.”

“Hey, that’s what friends are for, right?” she replied, smiling back.

-----

According to Vicky, the process of changing your legal name was simple, and required just two steps: step one, file with the court for a name change, and attend a hearing to confirm it; step two, publish the details of the name change in a newspaper within sixty days. That’s it. Done.

There was no problem with either step, really. Not even the second one. After all, even if I had to declare I was changing my name publicly… Who even reads newspapers any more? Especially the classifieds section. My parents sure didn’t, they got all their news from the Internet.

No, the real problem was that doing the whole thing required proof of birth: to change my legal name, I had to send in a certified copy of my original birth certificate.

Hence why I was sitting on a couch, in Vicky’s living room, staring down at my phone: I had the contacts app open, and my mom’s number was displayed.

I had to call her. Either her, or my dad. After all, that was the only way I was going to be able to get a copy of my birth certificate. And I needed that to be able to change my legal name.

God, what was I even going to tell them? “Hey, Mom and Dad, it’s me, ya girl. I’ve been pretending to be trans, and I need you to send over a document so I can further that deception!”

Yeah, right. They’d probably disown me. Or have me committed. After all, who would even believe such a wild tale? Some days, I could hardly believe it myself.

I looked down at the screen again. I really didn’t want to make the call, but in the end, I kinda had to, didn’t I?

My hand moved towards the call button.

And then I stopped, as I realised something.

Hold on.

I frowned.

Hold on. I was an adult, wasn’t I? Did I really need to go through my parents to get a certified copy of my birth certificate? Why couldn’t I do it myself?

I put down my phone, and grabbed my laptop: I did some quick googling, and sure enough, my state had a website from which I could request a copy of my birth certificate, and have it overnighted to where I lived. It would take just a couple of days before I had the certificate in my hands.

So there was no need for me to phone home.

I breathed a sigh of relief. I was lucky I’d realised that, it had saved me a really uncomfortable conversation with my parents, one that I really hadn’t been looking forward to.

Okay then. Let’s do this. Let’s order the birth certificate; then I’d think about everything else.

I clicked the link.

Let’s do this, Lily.